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Summary:
Callisto consoles Xena on Gabrielle's wedding night.

Note: This
story takes place during the time frame of the episode, "Return of Callisto,"
on the night of Gabrielle's wedding to Perdicas, although I've probably
somewhat altered the time frame. The story won't make a lot of sense
unless you're familiar with that episode.

Feedback encouraged
and welcomed.

Blood Sistersby ataraCopyright (c)
1998

Heaven's just
a rumor she'll dispelas she walks
me through the nicest parts of helli still dream
of lips i never should have kissedwell she knows
exactly what i can't resist--Nine Inch Nails,
"Sanctified," _Pretty Hate Machine_ (TVT Music, 1989)

She had to find
Callisto. That snake Theodorus hadn't known where she was, but she
had to find her. Xena thought about Hercules pursuing her after
Darphus had disobeyed her and slaughtered an entire village, children included.
She remembered the waves of anger rolling off him as they had fought--and
something else too. Was it desire even then? And now here she
was on a similar crusade to stop a murdering fiend with no respect for
human life. Another time she might have been able to muster a wry
smile at the irony, but not this night.

As she rode, her
own determination seemed to be streaming away behind her into the breeze.
Even her muscles seemed increasingly sapped of strength, and her heart
thudded dully against the cold walls that seemed to constrict it.
Her lungs drew less air, which couldn't flow past the growing block in
her chest. She couldn't fight Callisto, not tonight. Gabrielle
was married, and Xena didn't know if she would ever be able to force herself
to get up again once she lay down. Gabrielle was married, was offering
herself to Perdicas, and the pain was threatening to swamp her. At
the wedding, she had smiled, assuring Gabrielle that she was happy in her
happiness. It was the performance of a lifetime, and she had only
gotten through it by damming up her feelings through fierce will
and cold determination. Now, the ice built up around her heart, but
threatened to melt into a never-ending flood. Xena fought the tears,
afraid that if they started they'd never stop.

But they kept
threatening because Gabrielle was married, and all the joy and all the
light in the world was taken away from her. By Perdicas--who had
captured Gabrielle's heart with his distaste for violence. No, not
by Perdicas. It was Gabrielle's choice, and she had left her warrior
companion for a life without swords and blood and battles. Battles?
Xena didn't think she had strength even to draw her sword.

Yet part of her
wanted to draw it, to feel it jabbing through flesh, again and again.
Dangerous thoughts. Thoughts that would draw Ares to her side if
they didn't stop arriving unbidden in her brain. Ares. She
was tempted, very tempted. Xena envisioned the unruly mane of black
hair, the swelling biceps, the muscular chest with its covering of dark
curls, the powerful thighs, and the self-satisfied grin that infuriated
and stirred her at the same time. His heat was sufficient to boil
her grief away, render the threatening flood into harmless steam.
He would consume her with heat and sweat and bloodlust and the smell of
leather and his own dark musk.

No. If she
went down that path, now, this night, she would never come back.
She would never be able to give it up. Every time the pain and grief
threatened, she would burn it away with lust and battle, her quest for
good overwhelmed in an addiction to the only sensations strong enough to
keep her sorrow at bay. No, not Ares. At least not yet.
Not everyone had the god of war available to quench their miseries.
There were other ways.

She had spotted
an inn ahead. And, exhausted and drooping, she felt she couldn't
ride any longer. Not tonight. She forced herself through the
motions of stabling Argo and getting her water and hay, then went inside.
Within moments she found herself at a corner table, back to the wall out
of force of habit, and a mug of dry red wine clutched like a lifeline in
her hand. The serving-girl recognized the look on Xena's face--she
had seen it in many a patron--and full mugs followed the first one in rapid
succession. This one would need a place to sleep--she obviously wasn't
going anywhere tonight. "I'll order a room ready for you?" she had
inquired, and Xena had nodded dully. Her heart's only home had left
her, and it didn't matter where she slept.

Xena had become
very adept at drinking as a warlord; she had earned more than one warrior's
respect by drinking him under the table. Her capacity was impressive,
and the contents of several mugs passed her lips before she felt the grief
and pain start to abate just slightly under the wine-saturated haze inside
her head.

"What a lucky
coincidence, my pretty! I've been looking all over for you."
Callisto. As soon as her voice penetrated the haze, Xena reached
for her sword. "It's all right," said the blonde warrior in a reassuring
tone. "I'm not going to try to kill you tonight. I just thought
you might like a little company."

"I can think of
worse fates," muttered Callisto, then more brightly, "I felt you,
Xena. You need me tonight. Your little girlfriend has left
you all a-lone. I'm who you used to be, Xe-na. And you need
her. If the old Xena doesn't come back tonight, your heart
will break, won't it, my sweet? The new Xena let herself get soft
and weak and opened her heart. That was a mistake, wasn't
it, Xe-na? I can help you--tonight."

"Why?" Xena
reached for Callisto's sword and stashed it between her chair and the wall.

"Why?" repeated
Callisto softly, her face suddenly softened. "Why? Because
you're what I always wanted to be. My role model for better or worse.
And you need me right now."

Xena felt a flash
of compassion for the younger woman, thinking of a young girl much like
she herself had been, strong, fiery, determined to make more of life than
village existence. And who was the first woman she saw who wasn't
a wife and mother or future one, farming, sewing, cleaning, and cooking?
A killer, a murderer, leading a band of equally murderous thugs.
Yes, that was her first vision of independence.

Noticing Xena's
empty mug, Callisto signalled the serving-girl. "You want it, Xena;
you miss it. Think about how it feels, your sword driving through
flesh and muscle, life escaping through the open wound. Think about
blood soaking the ground, blood you caused to flow. Think of all
the hearts that stopped beating because of you. And your own hurts
so much, doesn't it, Xena? Stopping other hearts gets rid of the
pain for a while, doesn't it? You miss that, don't you? You've
forgotten how to stop the pain."

Xena stared at
Callisto, wide-eyed, snake-fascinated, transfixed. The full mug arrived,
and Xena abstractedly wrapped her fingers around the handle and brought
the mug to her lips, her eyes never leaving Callisto. "Look at me,
Xena," she ordered, somewhat redundantly. "Can you tell me you don't
want me?"

Xena's eyes traversed
the form in front of her, taking in the slim thighs emerging from the short
skirt, the flat, hard abdomen, and the round breasts, just barely contained
by the black leather that molded them. Her eyes returned to the warrior's
face, all angular planes set off by full lips, crowned by a halo of golden
hair, and illuminated by the fire smouldering behind the eyes. Yes,
she recognized that fire; she could see its effects in the wiry tension
that hummed through all the limbs. How could such a slender being
contain so much fire? She remembered Callisto's question and shook
her head, still in a seeming trance.

Callisto reached
out, one fingernail grazing a burning trail along Xena's cheekbone and
jaw. Energy flared between them, and Xena trembled with lust.
Callisto smiled. She drew her knife and slashed a thin line along
the palm of her left hand. Sheathing the knife, she followed the
slash with her fingertip, bringing it to Xena's mouth. Automatically,
Xena's lips parted, and she accepted the offering. "Taste it, Xena,"
murmured Callisto. "It burns your tongue, doesn't it? And it
tastes so familiar, just like your own, the way yours used to be.
Blood with no taint of weakness, Xena. You need that. I can
take away your pain--tonight."

Xena disregarded
the warning in the last two syllables. Her hand shot out and caught
Callisto's hand. She brought it to her mouth, tracking the trail
of blood with her tongue. Then she yanked Callisto closer, her other
hand wrapping itself into her adversary's blonde hair. She pulled
Callisto's mouth to her own lips, forcing her tongue inside so Callisto
would taste her own blood there mingled with the smoky tang of wine.
When Xena finally released Callisto's mouth, after exploring all its searing
recesses with her tongue, she said curtly, "Upstairs. Now."

On the way, Callisto
grabbed Xena's mug and paused to acquire a carafe of wine from the serving
girl. Xena watched, warily, but gratefully. She hadn't planned
on being anywhere near finished drinking by this point in the evening.
As soon as Callisto had put the carafe and mug down on the bedside table,
Xena grabbed her, pulling her close with a harsh shake. She plunged
her tongue into the younger woman's mouth, then worried her lower lip between
her teeth until she drew blood. Callisto giggled with pleasure, while
Xena caught the droplets of blood on her tongue.

Xena began to
unfasten Callisto's garments, feeling at the same time a pair of hands
beginning to remove her armor. A flash of fear at the insanity of
what she was doing rocked her for a moment, but the sight of the breasts
she had freed from their leather confinement sent a surge of lust through
her body that smothered any warnings from her brain. Every touch
was making the pain recede just a little farther--how could she stop now?
Soon, both women were nude, garments and armor and weapons strewn about
the floor. Xena pulled Callisto in roughly for another kiss with
a quick yank of the blonde hair, then picked up her companion and flung
her lightly onto the bed, joining her after another long swallow of wine.

Low growls met
high-pitched giggles, as teeth and lips sought out tender flesh that purpled,
swelled, and blossomed under their harsh care. Fingers tightened,
and nails pierced and raked skin, eliciting droplets of blood. Tongues
wrestled for advantage, each pressing for victory in the other's mouth.
Long hair, dark and blonde, strained in tight grasps, as fingers sought
purchase and stability before embarking on further sorties across sweat-slick,
blood-streaked skin. Muscles tensed and trembled, and a wine-flushed
fire ignited nerves and raced through veins. Under rough handling--rolling,
pinching, and twisting--nipples hardened and ached. Delivering a
swelling pleasure, a tongue coaxed a momentary surrender from between a
pair of thighs before the advantage shifted again, and invading fingers
opened a passage, and sometimes two, into the enemy's stronghold of desire.
Convulsing muscles and harsh cries signalled victory to the attacker, and
both sides claimed repeated triumphs until exhaustion and sleep defeated
both parties . . .

Xena awoke in
the morning, her mouth arid and brine-tasting and her throat parched.
A low throb emitted from the base of her skull, while iron bands tightened
around her head. Her first thought was a desperate hope that the
night before had been a nightmare, a fever-dream of an overwrought imagination,
but the small rational part of her mind that lurked behind the wine-soaked
rags that seemed to fill her skull was aware that she hadn't imagined her
encounter with . . .

"Hades!" she exclaimed,
realizing that she was alone. She leapt up to discover a torn scrap
of parchment on the table. An untidy scrawl read, "You shouldn't
have let your guard down, Xena. I warned you that I would kill your
soul." Xena's brain cleared in an instant, sobered by a shock of
horrified realization. She knew exactly where Callisto was headed
and what she intended to do, but she had to try to stop her. Married
or not, Gabrielle's life was the only thing that mattered. She was
ready and on the way to the stable in a matter of minutes.

"I should have
killed her while I had the chance," muttered Xena to herself as she rode.
But later, as events transpired, she had to confess, in the darkest recesses
of her soul where her guilt and self-loathing swirled and festered . .
. she had to confess that she was grateful that she hadn't.